Man with an Answer Will Sell You Out For A Price

In the flickering neon canyons of Tangier, sweat slick and fear-laced, you find Frankie “The Answer Man” huddled in a roach-infested doorway. His eyes, bloodshot marbles trapped in a creased leather face, flicker with a reptilian intelligence.He’s got the answer to any question, for a price. But the price ain’t always greenbacks, baby. It could be a vial of that sweet junky nectar, a whisper of a secret you can’t keep to yourself, or maybe a piece of your soul, sliced thin with a switchblade grin.

His answers, though, are a tangled mess of word-virus and fractured logic. They slither out, coated in a film of broken dreams and B-movie paranoia. You ask about the missing shipment, the one that could bring down the whole operation,and Frankie rasps, “The roaches ate the manifest, man. Tiny little bastards with taste for ink and betrayal. They got their own network, see? Speak in clicks and skitters, whisper your secrets to the shadows.”

He leans closer, the air thick with stale gin and desperation. “Want the real answer? Gotta cough up the Yen, man. Yen for the Yakuza, see? They got their claws in deep, deeper than you think. Deeper than the roach network, that’s for damn sure.”

You cough, the stench of decay clawing at your throat. Is it the truth, or just another twisted story spun by a man drowning in his own lies? In this fetid city, the line between truth and fiction blurs like cheap ink on bad paper. You pay, a wad of bills damp with sweat, and Frankie shoves a crumpled note into your hand. It contains a nonsensical string of addresses,cryptic symbols scrawled in a hand that could belong to a madman.

Is it the key to finding what you seek, or a dead end leading you deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the Tangier underworld? It doesn’t matter. You’ve bought an answer, and with it, a piece of the endless paranoia that fuels this city of shadows. The price may be more than you bargained for, but in Tangier, truth ain’t cheap, and betrayal’s the only currency that keeps the machine running.

He’ll sell you the answer, alright. But the answer itself is a virus, a code worm burrowing into your reality, rewriting the script. It’ll leave you hollowed out, a marionette dangling from the strings of paranoia. You’ll see whispers in the static, faces in the crowd morphing into the Answer Man, his grin a mocking reminder of the price you paid.

The alley stretches on, a fetid tunnel, the only exit. Behind you, the Answer Man chuckles, a dry rasping sound like bone scraping bone. The world seems a little more skewed, a little less trustworthy. Did you buy the answer, or did it buy you? In the flickering neon labyrinth, the line blurs, lost in the smoke and the shadows.


The man with the answer sits hunched in a booth reeking of stale beer and forgetting. Neon bleeds crimson onto his greasy brow, a mocking halo for his peddled wisdom. His eyes, bloodshot marbles trapped behind bottle-thick lenses, flicker with a reptilian intelligence. They hold the secrets you crave, the whispered truths dripping with betrayal.

His voice, a gravelly rasp torn from a throat choked on dust and desperation, rasps, “Answers, friend? You got the bread? Answers ain’t free in this meat market of a world. Gotta grease the gears of information with somethin’ tangible.”

A greasy deck of cards, dog-eared and worn thin with countless shuffles, lies splayed across the table. Its surface, a tapestry of grime and cryptic symbols, whispers of forgotten languages and forbidden knowledge. He deals three cards, each one a shard of your future glimpsed through a cracked mirror. The Queen of Spades, a widow in black, leers with a knowing smile. The Hanged Man dangles upside down, a grotesque reflection of your own precarious situation. The Tower, a jagged silhouette against a storm-wracked sky, promises imminent collapse.

“See, the cards speak,” he croaks, a hint of a smirk twisting his lips. “But they ain’t parrots. Gotta pry the answers from them. Takes a toll. You got the Yen? The smack? Maybe a juicy piece of info you ain’t clingin’ too tight?”

The air hangs thick with the stench of decay and desperation. Here, truth is a commodity, bartered for the dregs of humanity. You weigh the price, the cost of knowledge against the sting of betrayal. The man with the answer watches, a predator eyeing its prey, waiting for your decision. Do you pay for a truth that might be a lie, or walk away with your secrets and your doubts? The choice, like a roach skittering across the grimy floor, is yours.